Riddick and Acaelia
by 0x0UnderDog0x0
Summary: The planet's name was Galleon's Low, and what made me look just a bit closer than I would have looked at other places was the way that they lived. A way that some people would call...primitive. For whatever reason, the thought of living in the same way appealed to me. The downside of Galleon's Low was that strangers weren't very welcome there. AU, Riddick/OC, Rating may change


Riddick and Acaelia

Prologue

The planet's name was Galleon's Low, named after its founder Amelia Galleon. Other than those two facts, I don't know much about its history, nor do I really give a shit. I've heard a story or two about wars and religion, of course, but only through word of mouth. As expected, the tales of battle and God-fearing people on Galleon's Low were just the same as the they were in rest of the universe; death, discrimination, and the oh-so human need to dominate.

Theology and hostility were not the thing that drew me to this planet, though-if I wanted that, all I had to do was look over my shoulder, and there they were, just like magic. No, what made me look at Galleon's Low just a bit closer than I would other places was the way that they lived. A way that some people would call...primitive.

The citizens had decided at one point to go back to the old ways of living, to throw science and technology out of their lives and start from scratch. I don't know how they did it, how many people it took, or how long before they finally deemed their work a success, but they managed it. Buildings were made from wooden boards or stone bricks, food was grown from the natural ground or snatched from undomesticated animals, clothes were made from simple cloth, water was taken from wells. There was no connection to the rest of the universe-not through trade or politics or anything else-and the people of Galleon's Low had no desire to try and change that. The way they lived their lives was altogether basic, and for whatever reason, the thought of living in the same way appealed to me.

The downside of Galleon's Low-other than their lack of advanced medicines and the precautionary steps usually taken to avoid infection or illness-was that strangers weren't very welcome there. And here I was, an unknown man dressed in foreign clothes, carrying unfamiliar weapons, trying to land a large and bizarre aircraft in one of the only ports on the planet.

It hadn't occurred to me that the bow-and-arrow wielding soldiers before me might not speak the same language that I did until they started shouting. It wasn't too hard to figure out what message they were trying to get across, though. Arms raised in the air, palms skyward, I knelt to the ground as slow as possible and didn't make a single move. I didn't end up with an arrow sticking out of me, so I must have done the right thing.

A couple days were spent in some closely guarded, yet poorly made, underground cell before I was brought to someone who understood what I was saying and translated my words to someone that, I assume, had some kind of authority. I was asked all of the questions that one would expect to be asked in this situation-who am I, what do I want, am I willing to cooperate-and I told them the truth. My name is Richard B. Riddick, I want to live in Galleon's Low, and I will cooperate to the best of my abilities.

Just like I had hoped, nobody recognised my name, which meant my chances of being thrown right back in that cell were lowered. However, the word "lowered" isn't always the same as "gone", so I gave it my all to try and behave. Being civilized wasn't one of my strong suits, never has been and never will be, but I was willing to change things up a bit for now.

After a few more hours of questioning and debating, Amelia Galleon XII and I managed to come to terms. I was permitted to stay for a year so long as I was monitored at all times by a small group of soldiers. I would learn their language, their laws, their way of living, and I would become a working citizen of Galleon's Low. My things would be destroyed, my history ignored, and my struggles to adapt kept to myself. If I manage to fuck anything up during this year-if I run away from the soldiers, have no idea how to read/write/speak their language, continuously break their laws, am considered an outcast, or do not prove to be a beneficial worker-then I will be killed. Not outcasted, not put in jail, not given a second chance. I will be murdered.

The deal was solidified at the end of the day, which seemed to be dragging on and on. Rather than signing some glowing screen or recording my verbal agreement as I was used to, a mark was painted on the back of both of my hands and feet. According to the translator, whose name I should probably try and remember due to the fact that he'll be the only one to understand me for a while, the tattoos were temporary and would only last until the contract was fulfilled. I didn't bother asking how.

They told me it might take a few days before they could find me a household who was willing to take me in, and possibly longer to find me a job, but it would happen soon enough. Until then, I would stay in the cell and be taught by the translator the laws of Galleon's Low.

Admittedly, I'd expected that they would flat out deny me and tell me to leave their corner of space without ever looking back. And if they hadn't done that, then I'd had hoped that they would throw me to some unpopulated portion of the planet and let me figure things out on my own, away from distracting things such as society. But a happy medium was found, and I don't intend on throwing that away. A year wasn't too long of a time, especially in a place with food and warmth.

I've been in worse situations, and if I made it out of those alive, then surely I could make it out of this one unscratched.


End file.
